Hope in the Dawn
by klaronicles
Summary: "Together, we stand. Alone, we fall." Those are the words upon which the Klaroline nation was founded, and for centuries, its people thrived. However, war now knocks on their doors, and bonds strain as never before. As they battle to endure the heat of chaos, will they unearth a strength they never knew existed or lose themselves to the darkness that haunts us all? KC Fandom AU


**Edited Author's Note: **Hi, guys! This story is inspired by the Klaroline fandom and the struggles and triumphs we have had of late, internally and externally. In other words, this multi-chapter fic is an allegorical interpretation of the Klaroline fandom. I have been pondering this concept for quite some time, and I have finally decided it is time for me to just take the leap and write it.

Furthermore, I am immensely grateful unto Jade, my "pre-beta", and Jackie, my beta, for taking the time to look over my words and guide me to the right direction. Their support has made this experience so much greater. Also, I want to thank Elle and Monika for their support and aid as well. You guys are beautiful creatures. Kisses to you both! Also, Hope, I want to send a shout out to you, for being so eager to read my story. When you said you were excited, I thought, "Oh no. Now, I actually have to write it." LOL I love this entire fandom completely, and I hope you all enjoy this fic.

* * *

"Life is a chance to be free." Her mother used to whisper into her young ears. She would gently rest the comforter on her, always placing it right up to her chin and run a chafed, tanned hand over the young girl's honey skin and dark hair. She would place a kiss on her forehead and murmur, "Do not waste it, Roxanne." Then, she would turn out the light and disappear into the darkness.

Now, as she shivered on the desert's icy floor, she craved for her mother to once again resurface like she used to every morning, chasing her fears away. She yearned for her comfort and words of hope, for Roxanne no longer felt any.

"You're going to die." A traitorous thought whipped through her mind as despair tried to wedge itself further within her, and Roxanne closed her mind to the desolation…to the truth. A hurricane of memories from the night before tore through her mind, causing her to whimper in the cold against its onslaught. She wrestled against them to no avail. Her memories raged against the walls of her subconscious.

_Her eyes were fused shut. To the assailants, she was dead. Death had barged into the hotel in the middle of the night and squeezed its triggers. Agonizing sounds had soon replaced the communal laughter from before. Acting quickly, she'd thrown herself to the ground, her chest smashed against the cool floor, and pulled out her nail filer. Briefly, it flashed in the dimly lit room, before swiftly sinking into her flesh, her fingers shoving it deep into her shoulder. A shriek had ripped from her before she could stop it. No one had noticed. It had blended with the others. A body had crumpled onto the ground beside her, and recalling head wounds bled more heavily, she'd reached up and slit the flesh right behind her temple. The screams that had continued to slash the air again disguised her muffled cry. Her continual gratitude revolted her. Those screams had been infused with terror and agony. How dare she feel any relief when it was their deaths that were keeping her alive? _

_An eerie silence descended. Death had reaped its harvest. A warm liquid enveloped her fingers and started to saturate her shirt. The blood pooling on the floor reached her cheek and lips and mingled with her own. She grappled with the surging need to vomit and bolt. Roxanne urged her body to remain still on the floor – the same wooden floor she had only minutes ago been embracing as the path of her fresh start. Now, it would be the source of her nightmares. She would never forget how she quivered in fear of detection upon its polished surface. She knew the blood that now stained her clothing and nails would drown her in her sleep. Silencing the cries that strained for release, she regulated her breathing. _

_Several footsteps treaded across the floor. One by one, they paused. She heard the sounds of moving limbs and rustling clothes. To her right, caused by one of the murderer's ministrations, a moan escaped from one of the wounded. Alarm flooded through her. What would they do with –? A gunshot pierced the room. Roxanne jolted. Immediately, regret and fear coursed through her veins, and she sent out a silent prayer that the perpetrator had not caught her reaction. She listened. Excluding the recurrent thud of dead limbs hitting the floor, the room was utter silence. Then, her ears detected the undeniable sound of a chamber emptying…and being reloaded. Roxanne battled to keep her chest from betraying her animated state as her anxiety mounted. Her entire body tensed against her will as one heavy step and then another reverberated on the wooden floor, weaving a mortal path towards her still figure. Death was coming to reap its plunder._

A gust of wind snapped Roxanne from her torturous recollections. Water dripped to the side of her face as her memories carved holes into her chest. A single word whispered into her mind. It taunted her. It condemned her. Tears slipped faster from her eyes as she thought of what she had done. No. She repressed the memory, quieting her self-loathing and regret.

Curled in the fetal position, she trembled uncontrollably and drew her knees further to her chest. A chill slipped through the thin fabric of her sleeveless blouse and shorts, and she rubbed her hands over her bare calves, fruitlessly attempting to garner some heat. How did she get to this state? Only three days ago, she had strolled into Persephone Suites, duffle bag in tow with an adventurous grin adorning her expression, ready to seize life by its horns and leave her mark. Now, she lay bare to the desert life with bleeding wounds and blood caked nails and regret that hounds her day and night. She had been desperate to experience life for herself, and now as she grew numb in the frigid air and waited in trepidation for the hellish heat of daytime, she wondered if she had been an idiot or just cursed.

Roxanne sighed as the wind howled against her slight form and simultaneously dried her tears. A dull ache had sprung into her head earlier that day, and it had only worsened as the hours ticked by. The incessant throbbing in her head resided as a gloomy reminder of her dismal fate. She moaned and let her eyes slide shut. She comprehended what her parched throat and headache entailed. Generously, exhaustion overwhelmed her, luring her focus away from her body's dire warnings. Her breaths deepened as she succumbed to the blessed relief of sleep. A peaceful grin slipped onto her face as she once again dreamed of her mother and hope, forgetting her reality. She would not survive tomorrow night.

* * *

_**It is our bond, and it is also our hope. It is the source of our – **_

Joan quickly scribbled out the words she had just penned on the piece of parchment lying on her desk, her head creased in concentration. The speech beneath her stilled pen possessed marks and jotted notes along its entire length, further depicting the woman's sporadic inspiration. The red head groaned as stress consumed her. With the Casper Wre government plundering the lands and a few citizens in her country reacting just as violently, the tension between their countries was intensifying. She didn't need this added frustration. She sighed, rubbing her temples with her free hand. A pizza would be divine right about now. She tiredly leaned back in her chair, gently closing her eyes, and envisioned one of the 10 inch masterpieces filling her nostrils with promises of pleasure and hummed as she visualized her taste buds entering into the ecstasy of marinara and cheese, the bread softening in her mouth, but her bliss was abruptly shattered as Joan recalled that the only chef in the camp whose pizza she fancied was still on maternity leave. When was Jan getting back again? Joan desperately raked her mind for the answer, yet turned up with nothing, causing her agitation to mount. She couldn't even get pizza.

Motivation leaked out of her, and she set down the pen and stretched, combing her hands through her fiery red hair and peering around the interior of the enclosed tent for an entertaining distraction. Joan creased her brow. Clothes lied strewn haphazardly across the room onto several pieces of furniture and the sand floor, having been tossed hurriedly without a single thought towards the articles' destinations as she changed. A black bra hung by its strap from the edge of the bookshelf while scattered notebooks and pens and randomly stacked novels dominated the rest of the tent. It was pandemonium. Sighing, she reluctantly made a mental note to rectify this situation. However, the young woman knew full well with her schedule and demands it would be remaining in this exact chaotic state for a few days longer, and she determined that she would rather be outside in the sun than be cooped in here for another minute with a room that begged to be clean and a bookshelf of fictional works that she had read and reread a dozen times over.

Her fingers deftly secured her hair into a ponytail and smashed her hat onto her head, allowing her neck much needed access to any breeze that whirled outside and her face some shelter from the sun. Unfolding from her perch, her eyes and hands latched onto the lengthy portion of Damascus steel and slid the sword into the leather scabbard around her waist. A smile blossomed on her face. She already felt more relaxed with it on her person. That blade had accompanied her throughout most of her life and had witnessed every one of her triumphs and bore all of her secrets. It was a part of her. Joan's eyes flickered to the metal canteen leaning against the side of her bookstand on one of the upper shelves. Grabbing the lukewarm water, she strode towards the flaps of her abode and stepped into the sunlight.

Hundreds of people filled her vision, the encampment bustling with life. People of various sizes and complexions milled about the camp, rushing here and there or leisurely conversing with one another in the shade. In the distance, she heard cackling and noticed a person recounting a harrowing tale, most likely from their past, their hands gesturing wildly. In the tent across from her, a cluster of women lounged around a table, their hair if long enough, swept into rushed buns or ponytails like hers. Their hands seemed filled with a variety of ornaments, many being notebooks which waved back and forth in the air as many of the women attempted to discover some relief from the hellish heat. They were engrossed in a conversation, animation painting their faces as they quickly exchanged words and absorbed what little details each member could shed on the topic. The three remaining woman were involved in a card game, determination written on two of their faces while a defeated expression darkened the third's. A wave of sympathy travelled through Joan, but died promptly after she caught a glimpse of the woman's cards. Joan pursed her lips in order to still her laughter. The chances of that woman losing were slim to none, for not only did she have a great hand, she had the best hand. Merriment teased Joan's lips. The cunning mask the woman had adorned had everyone in that game fooled into a smug complacency. Joan immediately concluded that she liked this character. People skilled in the art of deception were always great on her list, and she quickly turned away before any of the soon to be devastated players noticed her amusement, and she ruined the fun.

As she continued to weave a path through the maze of tents, sweat began to bead on her back. She had only been outside a minute! She bewailed her living conditions. Why did she have to live in cauldron? She twisted off the cap of her canteen and gulped some of the water, her face scrunching when she realized the water had increased in temperature along with her body. She squashed the urge to peel off her white shirt and stroll through camp with only her pants on. Times like these she despised having to be in uniform. Why couldn't wars be fought in shorts or through singing contests and plays? That would be lovely. No bloodshed. No lost companions. No Joan slowly being baked liked one of those pizzas she hungered for, after having been ordered to relocate to the lake of fire.

"General Calvert!"

Joan twisted her head to the right, searching through the mass for the voice that had called her by her rank. She spotted a woman enthusiastically waving, endeavoring to grasp Joan's attention. Joan treaded towards the woman, still unable to fully identify her because of the distance. As she approached, she distinguished dark long tresses and a slightly slim form, but what truly differentiated the woman and facilitated the red head in assigning a name to the figure was the massive tent in front of which the woman stood. Sheila.

Joan quickened her step as she drew nearer to the Sheila's abode, the organizational center for the deliveries of the entire site. Whenever people needed information, Sheila hunted it down. She often jokingly labeled herself, The Bulletin Board, but it was an accurate designation, and Joan recognized that if Sheila was waving her down the moment she spotted Joan instead of sending her a currier as she normally did, the news must be urgent.

Sheila stood outside with a hand on her hip and the post in question in her other hand, her left foot tapping feverishly on the desert floor, conveying her impatience to return to the less sweltering interior of her shaded tent.

"General." She greeted, her pink lips curling into a grin.

"Hey!" Joan responded as she closed the last few meters between them, her eyes fastening upon the note in Sheila's hand.

"A message for you," Sheila states, handing Joan the sealed letter, her eyes alight with excitement.

Joan eagerly grasped the paper, rotating it so she could peer at the seal on the back. A depiction of a hummingbird lied imprinted into the hardened red wax, sending shock coursing through Joan. Her heart pounded in her ear. She had not seen this seal in years and knew of only one family that employed it. Joan quickly followed Sheila's departing form into the massive tent, so the message would be obscured from prying eyes while she read it, her fingers splitting the royal signet as soon as her feet breached the threshold. Bracing herself for whatever orders she may find, her eyes began to consume the words on the page.

_**General Calvert,**_

_**Casper Wre has attacked eight more cities and villages of our land. They have established camps for their soldiers at the violated sites and refused to acknowledge our demands for both the immediate removal of their troops and compensation for the crimes committed against our crown. Under the threat of war, the Casper Wre government has finally agreed to discuss a settlement. They are to send Ambassador Vaclav Hestins, and we mean to send you, General Calvert. The meet takes place at noon in two days' time. The location is the Marble Chateau in the Caspar Wrenian city, Reza, which borders our nation. It is a day's ride from your site.**_ _**Use your judgment. However, know we will accept nothing less than the respect we are due. **_

_** Her Royal Highness the Duchess of Holt**_

Joan schooled her features, so they gave no hint as to the components of the missive, but inwardly trouble stirred. She never questioned her monarchy, but why her? Why couldn't they have sent one of the other generals or an actual ambassador? However, she already knew the answer to her question. There was only one undefeated General in her realm's military. And the crown already suspected the outcome of this meeting and desired the aforementioned leader to get an impression of the enemy she would face on the battleground. It was not a settlement. It was a scout mission. Subconsciously, her fingers caressed the grip of her sword.

Yet why Hestin? She had never encountered the man, but his reputation spoke volumes. He was great in height and extremely clever, almost as intelligent as she was it seemed. However, he was an exasperation. He and his manners had parted each other's company long ago, and no one in a ten yard radius of him survived the experience without desiring to slam their fist into his face and break his nose. He strained the calm of even the most patient of people, and Joan was not known for her fortitudinous nature concerning uncouth individuals. No, she was known for spilling the blood of her enemies as danced around the points of their swords. Therefore, why send the worst ambassador known to man to an event supposedly as significant as this one? The question nagged her. Grabbing a wayward lock of red hair and tucking it behind her ear, she turned towards Sheila and thanked her, her mind skimming over every aspect of the foreboding news.

"Oh, by the way," Sheila casually mentioned. "Jan told me to update you on when her maternity leave would officially be over."

Joan spun around, the royal decree and doubts about Hestin utterly forgotten as images of melted cheese and a toasted circle of bread filled her vision. Her stomach growled. "When does she arrive? Please, say this afternoon." She begged.

Laughter spilled from Sheila's lips over Joan's reaction to her words. "Sorry. You have two more weeks."

"Two more weeks?!" Joan cried, incredulous. "I don't know if I will survive two more weeks!" Especially with a war breathing down her neck. Joan pouted, dejection written across her face as she looked down at the sand floor. She could live without clothes, people, and even sleep, but pizza was a necessity. Nevertheless, Jan was on maternity leave and soaking up precious moments with the new joy in her life, so even though she would rather be stuck for two weeks with Hestin instead, she accepted her reality and decided to muster through the torture. Plastering a tiny grin on her face, she acquiesced, "Okay. Thank you for telling me Sheila."

At the sound of utter devastation echoing in Joan's voice, Shirley offered a sympathetic smile. "If it makes you feel any better, she said that she would make two of them just for you upon her return."

Joan snapped her blue eyes to the brown ones across the room, a thrill spreading inside of her and stretching across her face, erasing any traces of heartbreak. Joan nodded enthusiastically. "Yes! I look forward to it! If you hear from her, please, tell her I said thank you!" She sighed with contentment. Two pizzas. One for each week of hell.

"I will do so," Sheila promised, chuckling to herself as she continued to sort through the last shipment of mail.

Joan turned towards the woman, suddenly realizing she had not spoken to her in weeks. "How have you been, Sheila?"

"Oh, nothing much. Just stalking the neighbors." Sheila grinned. "Jan's too far away right now, so I am supplementing." Sheila stated, her eyes scrutinizing the addresses on the posts before she placed them in the assigned shelves. "You?" She asked, tilting her head to examine Joan underneath her chocolate brown eyes.

Joan scrambled for a reasonable answer. Should she say what was expected or be sincere? She stared into Sheila's piercing gaze, desperate to confess, "I am beyond drained. All I want to do is curl up with some entertainment and sleep all day, but my mind keeps blaring at me. Go! Go! Go! It screams, and it is making me want to pull my hair out." Instead, she simply plastered on a tired smile and voiced, "I have been better, but that's life." Joan shrugged.

"Yes, life can be a butt!" Sheila exclaimed, gesturing to the dozens of boxes she still needed to unpack, catalogue, and shelve.

Joan shook her head as she took in her peer's obvious desire to flee from the numerous packages. "I am so glad I do not have your job. I fear I would be driven mad. At least, as a general, I get to order people around all day." She joked.

"Sometimes, I think I already have gone insane." Sheila snickered and groaned simultaneously, Joan joining in with laughter.

"If you go crazy, I am sure I will follow shortly after."

"Hmm. We should make a plan just in case. I suggest we spend the rest of our days in an illusory tropical paradise with daily back massages."

"With hot men as our masseuses," Joan added, with a mischievous smirk. The two women laughed, some of the weight falling off their shoulder.

Joan grinned at the studious, brown haired gem. "Thank you, Sheila, especially for this." Joan lifted the royal letter clutched between her fingers.

"No problem, General Calvert. I am always here." Sheila assures, adding with a roll of her eyes, "Every hour, it seems."

Amusement evident in her tone, Joan uttered her goodbye to the feisty woman and strolled from under the covering, dreaming of massages and half-naked masseuses, but the sun immediately spoiled her thoughts. She had not missed at all directly being in its rays, the heat outrageously feeling even more oppressive than before. She cracked open her water and swallowed a couple of mouthfuls, cringing at the tepid water, but at the same time wishing she could bathe in its moisture. Maybe, she could send for the massage artists – and some ice?

As she meandered towards her home, a sharp breath seized Joan's attention. Reflexively searching for the origin of the stimuli, her eyes landed upon a female less than a decade younger than her. The girl lied on a cot with a novel tightly grasped in between her slender fingers, her elbows holding her up in support and her pale legs swaying at a random beat. She appeared thoroughly captivated by the words before her, her mouth still pried open from her shocked exhalation from earlier. Appeased that no one was in danger, the general turned to leave, but stilled as beseeching negatives tumbled from the reader's lips. Swiveling around to see what the alarm was, Joan had to cup her hand over her mouth in order to quiet her hilarity over the scene progressing before her. Eyes glued to the page, the young lady was rapidly shaking her head as if her adamant veto to whatever dreadful event the book contained could actually prevent the calamity from unfolding. Joan struggled to conceal her giggles as the girl rose to rest on her knees, anxiously bracing herself for whatever was coming, her free hand gripping the sheet.

Her attention lingering on the wisp of a woman in front of her, Joan slowly sobered. Her fingers tightened their clasp on the missive from the Duchess of Holt. She could sense the turmoil swirling in the air, waiting to descend upon them. War was in the air, and Death would follow close on its heels. She smiled sadly at the animated being before her, knowing that times of peace were numbered. The youth appeared so vibrant and alive, so oblivious to just how soon that life could be snuffed out. Joan, on the other hand, knew what it felt like to laugh and jest with a friend one hour and to howl over their butchered corpse the next. She knew how quickly Death came to collect, and most of her life, she had been trying to evade its grasp.

Gravely, she treaded back to the tent with the order in hand, and she parted the flaps, spotting a piece of parchment resting on the foot of her cot. A sliver of dread penetrated her newly acquired serenity as she tentatively treaded towards the bed and wrapped her fingers around the letter.

"Let this one be kind," she pleaded to forces unseen. She unfolded the source of her apprehension, her old friend dejection already clamping its rough fingers around her heart. Inhaling deeply, she absorbed the words angrily scrawled onto the paper:

_**I am disgusted with your haughtiness and arrogance! You think you have those pathetic metals on your chest you are better than us?! Well, your wrong. I am revolted that I have to be associated with you. Get over yourself.**_

A storm of anger besieged her and shoved her distress to the side. Her strained heart pumped rage throughout her being, infusing her cheeks with livid blood. Shaking hands gripped the venomous note with an iron fist, her knuckles turning white. How dare they? Her thoughts whirled and collided with the force of an ocean turned lethal in the midst of a hurricane. Her patience snapped. For years, she had slaved for this kingdom, for these soldiers for whom she had risked her life on numerous occasions. No matter how far into chaos her life descended, she always sacrificed her needs for theirs. Each time they needed her, she was there! She had presented them with comfort when she herself had felt lost to dismay. She incessantly performed above and beyond the call of duty. Out of love! Out of love, she would toss to the winds the precious hours of sleep she needed to comfort the line of people outside her door who asked her for words of encouragement. Out of love, she labored to keep everyone else happy while she herself could scarcely comprehend such an emotion. She dedicated to them her all, and even though most of them seemed to value her emboldening words that came from her lips over her, she deserved their respect!

A burning sensation breached her distracted thoughts, and Joan promptly realized she had been holding her breath in frustration…and pain. Air shuddered from her lungs. They sucked in the oxygen from the air, and she closed her eyes and stilled her breathing for five seconds, and then, slowly, she released the air from her system, hoping to expel some of the tension from her body. Another deep breath. Her fingers slightly relaxed from their death grip on the missive, and her vexation began to wane. Crumpling the parchment in her hand, she strode towards the waste bin beside her desk and discarded the words purposed to tear her spirit to shreds, her eyes glancing over the eight other crushed forms lying beside it in the trash, and Joan suspected that by the time the week was over her garbage would be overflowing with the messages as it had every week for the past several months. People really should focus on more constructive hobbies.

Joan collapsed into her chair and slowly exhaled. Weariness had already established its claim upon her, and the day had barely commenced. She glanced down at the scattered papers across her desks. Picking up her pen, her attention flashed towards the scrunched papers piled in her trash, and she briefly considered not writing the speech, anger still residing underneath the surface. Yet, in the end, the pen never fell from her hand. She had poured so much of herself into the lives of the people encompassing her and into this nation. Her nation was her passion, every troop under her command a brother or sister.

"Together, we stand. Alone, we fall." She muttered. She recalled the oblivious women in the card game and the vibrant young lady lost to a world fashioned in ink and sighed, gathering the papers in her hands. She could not bring herself to abandon them. She could not stop herself from caring. Therefore, staring at the jumble of notes, she put pen to paper and resumed her labor.

* * *

As the sun swallowed her thoughts and confused her mind, Roxanne struggled to drag herself across the land to the shimmering ocean before her eyes, her breaths shallow and quick. The pounding in her skull from the night before had exacerbated, and it only amplified the message that each cell in her body screamed: pain. Her skin was dry and stiff as she curled them into fists and leaned on them, pulling herself forward, hoping to make it to the blue expanse. The skin of her formerly rosy lips had shriveled and split, having lost its elasticity hours ago. As she continually forced her body to move despite its strong urge to rest, a dizzy spell overcame her, and her vision swam into darkness. She fought to not collapse onto the bed of sand, a wave of nausea sweeping through her empty stomach. Anxiety slipped into her system, and she stilled, waiting for her queasiness to dissipate in fear that otherwise she would trigger a series of vomiting which would completely eradicate what little energy she had left. And she needed every ounce of it. Before she could truly begin to panic that her vision was thoroughly lost, it slowly reverted back, her watery salvation back within her sight, still twinkling from the light of her enemy. Nonetheless, its distance still discouraged her. No matter how far she crawled, it seemed to be fixated right beyond her reach. The watery depths nestled against the horizon, and something inside her feared she would never survive that distance.

Her damaged shoulder hindered her efforts with each lightning strike of pain it emitted every time she attempted to rotate it, so she could haul herself to life. She hungered to stop, and she wanted to sob into the wasteland beneath her, but mostly, she yearned to have never left home. Her soft, sumptuous bed, adorned in vibrant green silk sheets and a lavish comforter seemed to belong to someone else entirely. Someone who never wondered if there was more to life – more to her than the sheltered world her parents had shaped for her. As her movements gradually became more sluggish by the second, fatigue bearing down on her limbs, she finally accepted that she was both a fool and cursed. Each moment, her dry mouth cried out for water, and she frequently found herself longing to cry, so she could have one drop of gratifying liquid on her tongue, even if it was an inedible one. She was so far gone she had even considered licking beads of sweat off her face, but to her dismay none had appeared. Her body had no more moisture to spare.

Energy leaked from her pores every time she budged one of her limbs to propel her closer to the ocean, and every movement she made in hopes of sustaining her life only lured her closer to contrary, the actions aggravating her shoulder wound and preventing the clotting process. The blood still oozed from the wound in a tiny dark red stream, and weakened, her legs seemed to fall back into the sand as soon as she lifted them an inch. If not for the trail her body left into the waves of sand as she pulled herself across it, she would have believed her body had stopped migrating hours ago.

The water she literally ached for gently lapped in the distance, the water a serene blue, reflecting the sky. Roxanne halted. Reflecting the sky...Her head had been drooped, and her sight had consisted only of the sand, but occasionally such as in this moment, she would lift her head up to feast on her prize catching above the watery gift a thin sliver of the color streaked world above. The sun was setting, yet, besides the shimmers of sunlight, her ocean remained a pure blue. A sickening dread poured over her like ice. Yet, she could not fully comprehend the reason why. A memory, a warning wrestled to break through her heat poisoned mind, as she tentatively resumed her agonizing crawls.

And then, it happened. The sickening dread sharply twisted her heart as her eyes widened in horror, disbelief etched into the black pupils. The ocean was moving. No, it was evaporating into the broiling air surrounding it, receding into dry desert. Grief lodged in her throat, choking her sob. How? Desperately, she spun her pounding head around, searching for where the ocean had disappeared to. Nothing. How? This time the sob tore from her lips, and her hands clenched into the sand, and she watched as it and hope sifted through her fingers.

Finally conquering her haze, the struggling memory surfaced, although seconds too late and warned her to beware, loudly declaring the answer to her bewildered query about the contradicting water and sky. A mirage. It had been a mirage. All that hope, all of her pain had been for an illusion, a lie the desert had fabricated in jest. It had been mocking her, laughing at the poor little girl who had dared hope this hell would be her refuge from Death. Now, Roxanne understood that she had in fear only raced past Death's gate into his immense play pen. As fear of the unknown crippled her heart, she bemoaned her fate – to have escaped the claws of death only to have them draw near to her again.

Hope abandoning her, she collapsed into the sand, gasping for breath with her head turned uncomfortably to the side, so she could breathe. Earth and a slim rectangle of sky filled her vision, and she realized this dismal picture would be her last sight of the world that had brought her such joy. A staunch refusal pounded through her bloodstream. If she was to die this very hour, she would die with the radiant sunset as her sendoff, not the dry desert floor that reminded her only of hopelessness. Determined, she hoisted her weakened body onto its side, briefly applauding herself for accomplishing that herculean task, and fell onto her back.

A range of hues twirled across the sky, blending into each other. Purples and pinks and reds and yellows, even that rare color green. She smiled sleepily, her respiratory system still struggling to accomplish more than a pant. Movement caught the corner of her eye, and she focused her drowsy eyes on the moving shadows in the sky. As she observed the dark shapes, they slowly gained detail, and it dawned upon her what they were.

The vultures circled above her, having earlier been beyond her line of sight after she had sprawled into the mounds of sand beneath her, dehydration and blood loss taking their toll. The birds danced above her, acting as heralds to Death's approach. Her eyes drifted closed as her familiar friend called her forth into the abyss. She thought of all the things she coveted to perform one final time, such as dancing in the rain, her arms flung to the side as she twirled and laughed in abandon as the fat drops soaked her clothes and hair as it used to when she was younger. Or falling asleep in her mother's embrace, the woman's pale arms encircling her slight form, acting as a shelter from all the horrors of the world. And even helping her father make blueberry muffins every Saturday morning. She craved that too. She had always ended up covered in flour from head to toe. Her father would be reduced into a fit of laughter as he gawked at her powdered state until her mother would stumble upon them, glaring at him for allowing the girl's clothes and hair to be dirtied, but there had always been laughter behind her eyes. She craved to do all of these things again, but as her eyes cracked open slightly and surveyed the vultures awaiting her demise, she mostly yearned to know what it felt like to be complete – to not hope there was more to her than the girl in the silk green sheets who twirled around in the rain, searching for an elusive peace. She laughed bitterly, realizing how gently she was going into that good night.

The vivid colors in the sky disappeared behind her lids, her world descending into darkness. She heard the rumble of thunder in the distance, the sound growing louder by the second, and in her last remaining emblems of conscious thought, she fuzzily pondered if her delirium had advanced. The thunder clamored in her right ear, and suddenly halted. Swooping from their perch, the couriers of death landed on the ground beside her with a thud and greedily wrapped their talons around her arms, emitting a screech into the air, a cry the nearly unconscious girl feared beyond measure.

"Klaroline!"

Then, the embers extinguished completely, her limbs going limp.

* * *

**Author's Note:** Thank you for reading! As I said, it is inspired by the actual events in the fandom. I just made the metaphysical war and warriors into "real" ones. This is my first fic, so please leave some constructive criticism. It would be highly appreciated. Much love!


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